Today's ruminations are brought to you by the sexy minor seventh interval. As far as musical love letters go, Robert Schumann was quite the cunning wordsmith. I've resigned myself to the fact that no one will ever write me anything so devastatingly, pants-droppingly beautiful as the third movement of Schumann's E-flat piano quartet. Those sevenths slay me every time. Dude sure knew how to woo a lady. Damn you, Clara. You got all the good ones.
Where does the time go? One minute I'm fretting about not having enough to do, the next I'm buried under a mountain of repertoire because I simply can't stop saying no to people. Someday I'll figure o
Suddenly half a year has gone by. "You'll write more," you tell yourself, greeting every day with a promise that "Today will be the day I start on that story/essay/novel" and every day the same ending
In an early post from this blog, dated December 30, 2013 (almost nine years ago to the day), I wrote: "The week between Christmas and New Year's is one of my favorites. Nothing too pressing ever happe